


Les Cuddle Pile

by Hathanta



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Modern AU, cuddle piles, cuteness, dog piles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hathanta/pseuds/Hathanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right, that’s it. Nope, no, put that folder back.” </p><p>In which Courfeyrac has had enough of everyone working, and decides that it's high time everyone got some sleep - all curled up together on his bed, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Cuddle Pile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remolupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remolupin/gifts).



It’s Wednesday night – not a particularly exciting time of the week for the Amis – and Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre have spent the evening studying in Courfeyrac’s room. At the minute (incidentally, about 12:30) Enjolras is hunched over the desk, still tapping out notes onto his laptop, Courfeyrac is on the floor having made a nest out of revision materials, and Combeferre is on Courfeyrac’s bed, reading and highlighting a textbook. As the digital clock on the table flashes 12:31, Courfeyrac rolls over, crumpling papers beneath him, and groans. He tangles his hands into his hair, pushes it away from his face, then throws his hands up above his head and lets them flop to the floor.

“I swear I’m about to go brain dead. I’m not joking. You’ll have to tell the others at the Musain tomorrow. Poor Courf who tragically suffered brain death after five hours of solid revision. They’ll weep. Will you weep, ‘Fere?”

“Most certainly.” Combeferre highlights another line in green and looks up at Courfeyrac, “You’re going to crease those notes, you know.”

“What does it matter?” Courfeyrac cries dramatically. He wiggles around and grabs one of the papers from beneath him, holding it up to look at it. It is a bit crumpled, but he ignores this. “They don’t make sense to me anymore. I can’t even read this.”

“It’s upside down.”

“It’s the brain death.”

“Could you be a little quieter, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras doesn’t turn around from his work and Courfeyrac huffs at his perfect blonde head.

“No. No – it’s half-past midnight, you’ve already had two cups of coffee. I’ve already had two cups of coffee. That was two hours ago. You’ve gotten through, what, two whole assignments? Combeferre’s given up and is just highlighting stuff. I think it’s fair to say we could sleep now.”

“These are important notes,” Combeferre defends his highlighting quietly. Enjolras doesn’t reply, instead finishing a sentence and shuffling some papers together, snapping them into a folder and putting it on the table. Then he says, “Three.”

“Three what? Three years since I last saw sunlight? Three centuries since you handed a piece of work in late?”

“I’ve finished three assignments,” his tone is not a little smug.

“Right, that’s it. Nope, no, put that folder back.” Courfeyrac, suddenly standing next to Enjolras, takes the folder from his hands and tosses it out of his reach. This was achieved more through surprise than anything else and Enjolras immediately tries to get it back, but Courfeyrac distracts him by grabbing his laptop instead, and skipping across the room, saving and closing each of his documents one by one.

“Hey! Give that back!” Enjolras rises and chases after him, but Courfeyrac is already spinning around and snapping shut the laptop.

He pales, “You –”

“I saved them.” Courfeyrac assures him and he breathes a sigh of relief, then seems to feel the tingling sensation that’s slowly returning to his left foot, and grimaces, hopping over to the bed as it turns into full blown electric pins and needles.

“You shouldn’t sit like that for so long,” Combeferre comments as Enjolras gripes and wiggles his foot. Courfeyrac meanwhile sets the laptop on the table and jumps onto the bed with all the vigour of a young puppy, scattering Combeferre’s highlighters across the duvet. Combeferre frowns and reaches for them, but with one sweep of Courfeyrac’s leg they have been removed to the floor. Next he plucks the textbook from Combeferre’s lap (the fact that he lets this go without a fuss attests to how tired he really is) and then carefully takes the glasses off his nose and sets them on the table. Then he throws himself into Combeferre’s lap and snuggles up to his chest.

“I guess we should leave so that you can get some sleep,” Enjolras says from the foot of the bed, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“No,” he reaches over and pulls Enjolras over to join the pile, “you should stay and get some sleep too.” Now they are both draped over Combeferre’s legs, and Enjolras smiles ruefully up at his right-hand man.

“You were going to go home and continue studying weren’t you?”

“I still have –”

Courfeyrac hits him with a pillow, “I will smother you if you keep talking like that! You need to sleep too, you idiot, or are you planning on freeing the world as a zombie? Can you turn the light out?”

“You’re lying on me.”

“You’re both lying on me, I’m not doing it.”

“Oh I have to do everything for you two!”

“That is bullshit and you know it Courfeyrac!” but Combeferre is laughing, and Enjolras is smiling and looking already sleepy. Courfeyrac bounces up and over to the wall, “Okay, get comfy, it’s gonna get dark!”

Combeferre moves so that he’s actually lying down, on his back with his head on the pillows, and Enjolras squirms after him and buries his nose in Combeferre’s neck. Courfeyrac hits the lights and scampers back over to the bed, crawling onto it and curling up, more on Combeferre than off him, with his head on his chest, reaching across to touch Enjolras’ wrist. 

 *

It feels like much later when Enjolras is woken by the sound of someone coming into the flat. By this point Courfeyrac is lying bodily on Combeferre, squishing Enjolras’ arm beneath his chest, and neither of them seem to have woken up. Over the top of Courf’s head he can see that it is only 1:30. Outside the door he hears whoever it is moving around, and then the door opens and he shutters his eyes against the light from the hallway.

“Oh...” he hears Grantaire say, and, yes, those are Grantaire’s wild curls he can see silhouetted in the doorway. He waits for the man to come in, or leave, or say something, but Grantaire doesn’t move, and as Enjolras’ eyes adjust to the light, he can see Grantaire looks a little lost, and a little sad.

“You gonna just stand there?” he asks finally, and Grantaire jumps, apparently just realising that Enjolras is awake.

“God, no, sorry. Um, sorry.” he turns awkwardly and shuffles away, and Enjolras frowns because that’s not what he wanted to happen.

“Hey!” he calls, levering himself up on one elbow, “Wait – Grantaire!”

“Wha’re yelling ‘bout?” Courf mumbles into Combeferre’s shirt, and Combeferre, without even opening his eyes, replies, “Grantaire’s just come in, why don’t you go and get him, Courf?”

If Courfeyrac was a dog his ears would have pricked up in excitement; as it was, he merely climbed out of bed and trotted out of the room, to return a moment later, leading Grantaire by the hand.

“It’s okay,” the latter was mumbling, “I don’t really –”

“Come on, this will be better just getting drunk in the kitchen alone. Come on.” Courfeyrac pulls Grantaire down onto the bed and pushes him about until he’s settled down against Combeferre’s side – incidentally the same side that Enjolras is on (because Courfeyrac had claimed that the other side was “his spot”). Enjolras duly makes room for him, shifting his head along ‘Ferre’s arm because, really, it’s too late to argue. However, Grantaire is tense next to him, with both arms wrapped around himself, and Enjolras doesn’t think he really gets the idea of a dog pile.

“Do you often get drunk alone in the kitchen?” Enjolras asks, partly because he’s curious, and partly because he wants to ease the tension, but apparently that wasn’t the best thing to say, because Grantaire immediately snaps back, “Do you often convince people you hate them? Oh wait –”

“Both of you can shut up now, or you can sleep on the street. Your call.”

They both shut up.

And then a moment later Grantaire whispers, “Sorry.”

And Enjolras whispers back, “I don’t hate you. I’m sorry.”

And Combeferre says, “As heart-warming as this is, I _would_ like to sleep at some point, and my arm is going numb.”

“Ok, right –” Enjolras shifts them around a bit until his head is again resting on Combeferre’s shoulder, and ‘Ferre’s arm encloses him in return. Grantaire gets sandwiched between them, and Enjolras has somehow managed to shift him on top, so that Grantaire’s head is on his chest. Slowly Grantaire uncurls an arm and slips it around Enjolras’ waist – and when that’s not met with resistance, he tucks a foot in-between Enjolras’ shins as well. Courfeyrac hums happily and snuggles his head against Grantaire’s back, and like that they fall asleep.

 * 

(In the morning, Combeferre wakes first, with Courfeyrac pretty much curled up on his chest. During the night it seems that Enjolras rolled away from the pile and Grantaire chased him, because they’ve formed a separate duo, with Grantaire completely wrapped around the other man. Combeferre smiles and quietly wakes Courfeyrac so that he can, a. get off Combeferre, b. coo over the others, and c. take a photo. A photo which Grantaire may steal later, because who doesn’t want to remember that night that they spent cuddling with the guy they’re in love with?)

 


End file.
